Six Feet Under Observation
by Quasar-Hunter Is On Hiatus
Summary: The wait staff know everything. Or, at least, she's going to try- especially with this green-eyed stranger.


Emma paid attention to her customers. Of course, any good waitress should. But she really paid attention to them—observed them, really. She'd study them and read their profiles and body language like a reader dying to know more from their favorite author. She absorbed everything she could about them. Gender, ethnicity, name, general age, occupation, sexual orientation, marital status—even their background and general histories.

It's not just the maids that know everything. So do the wait staff.

So she'd listen. And learn. And watch. And decipher. At first it was a game. A challenge meant to keep herself occupied. But then it soon morphed into a hobby—an obsession. She collected profiles of people.

She didn't know what to make of this person.

Long, shining—almost greasy-looking—black hair to the tops of his shoulders. A face like the back of a porcupine: points as far as the eye could see. Even his eyes. Sharp but… dull? She didn't know what to make of the dead, yet clearly intelligent and searching, eyes of this pale-skinned stranger.

He glanced around and behind himself before he sat down. His brown leather trench coat dangled down past the diner's swivel chair and didn't quite fit with the candy-coated, sugar blue of the rest of his surroundings. A green turtleneck poked out from under the coat.

His eyes again swept the restaurant before he turned towards the bar and stared at the empty space in front of himself.

"Howdy, Mister," she said, painting on her best "I'm Honestly Not That Interested In What's Obviously Your Very Interesting Life" smile and set a sticky menu and bundle of silverware down in front of him. "What can I get you? Coffee is three bucks for an endless cup."

He nodded silently—like a knee-jerk reaction that only consisted of a short up and down motion of his head before he began to study the menu.

She swallowed and bit her lower lip with patience as she went to grab a clean cup from its place on a tray with dozens of others. She set the cream-colored cup in its saucer and down onto the table, then grabbed a pot of coffee from its warmer and dumped some in. A few light brown bubbles sloshed on the surface as the steaming liquid settled down.

He glanced at the coffee. And just stared.

"It's great for a cold day like this," Emma said. She glanced around.

Her last customer—an elderly gentleman (Mr. Portican: age 78; married 4 times; currently widowed; originally a banker turned CPA, now retired and growing things in a small vegetable garden; one large, short haired dog, "Francis," and two cats, both long haired and light colored)—was just leaving a couple of dollar bills on the table at his booth for a tip.

He looked up, smiled and nodded at her—which she reciprocated—and then left, pocketing his worn wallet.

This left the stranger, herself and the cook alone. She lingered by him, leaning over the counter towards him before asking, "Can I recommend anything to you?"

He looked downwards, then recoiled and quickly looked back at his menu. She glanced down and blushed.

Stupid shirt, always coming unbuttoned.

She quickly fixed that last pearl-white button and then turned back to him. "My apologies, Sir."

(Not familiar—or interested?—in the, _ehem_, intricacies of a woman? Is that respect or fear?)

"For what?" he murmured. He cleared his throat and looked up at her. She could almost see the lack of confidence lined in his face disappear. "You have done nothing wrong."

(Gentlemanly? What's his angle?)

"So, what brings you to our town?" Emma asked. "Business? Holiday? Just—"

"Why do you assume that I do not currently reside here in this area?"

(Defensive. By body language, a runner. From what, though?)

"Because it's a small town. I know everybody who lives here and they know me and each other. If you've just moved here, it'll spread like wildfire through the town."

His eyebrows rise briefly and his eyes widened just slightly. Enough to show a surprised fear.

(Running. Leaving behind no tracks. Maybe not the best place to stop.)

"We're pretty exclusive around here. Takes a little while before most folks will talk to strangers. I like strangers, though. They have so many wonderful stories to tell."

He relaxed a bit. "And do these strangers always tell you their stories?"

"No," she says. (Not in words.)

"I see."

"So, what can I get you to eat? The burgers are out of this world."

He glances down at the menu and then back up. Those green eyes. So… icy. Pointed, but glazed with a frost somehow.

(Callous. He's been through a lot, poor guy.)

"I'll take a burger, then."

Emma nodded, scratched it down onto the paper, and then posted it for the cook. (Mr. Lesley Douglas; age 42; male; Caucasian; married with two children and another surprise on the way; two dogs; lots of land; recently laid off from his office job, and now working three jobs to keep up his wife's lifestyle…)

She grabbed a glass of sweating water and set it down in front of him. "In case coffee isn't really your style."

He shrugged and took a sip of the (still) black coffee. "It's not my preferential drink."

"Good for a cold, winter's—"

"You already said that," he snapped.

She winced and tucked her head closer to her chest, shying away from his sharp voice.

(Not used to redundancies. Efficient. Highly intelligent. Rules out plenty of office work.)

He shook his head with a sigh, then looked back at her, a faint grin (doesn't quite reach his eyes) quirking his lips. "How is it they phrase this? The cold never bothered me anyway?"

Emma laughed. That movie. So popular now. (Familiar with some modern lingo. Twenties? No. But he can't be older than forty-five. Probably. Looks are deceiving. If only he'd order a beer and I can ID him…)

"I see you observing my actions," he says, bringing his fingers together just under his chin. "Is this what you mean by strangers having so many stories to tell?"

She blushed. (Found out. Rats. Well, maybe I can ask some questions then.)

"Yes. Exactly. You're good. Most people wouldn't have caught on. Are you a detective?"

"Are you inquiring as to my occupation?"

Emma nodded.

"What I do is complicated. It often involves inspiring large groups and causing mass chaos and havoc."

"So… military?" she asked, her face contorting in confusion. "Gang leader?"

"I guess you could say a combination of the two."

"You have a family?" she asked. "I hate being nosy, but you've got to admit, it passes the time."

His face grows even colder. More frozen and stony. (Shutting down. Bad question. Not good relationship with family.)

"No."

"I'm sorry if I asked a bad question."

"I don't think that there's a question you could ask that would be good," he said flatly.

"All right. I'll stop bugging you, then."

Emma left him alone to enjoy his peace and quiet. He looked around the restaurant. It was like he'd grown six inches since he'd walked in. He wasn't the shrinking, scared man who had come in like an exile or a refugee. Now he was a commander.

(Nice build and bod. Tall. Do something about the hair, though…)

Douglas rang the bell and she grabbed the burger from the kitchen and set it down in front of him. "What's your name?"

"Loki," he said.

"Got a last name?"

Silence. He took a bite of the burger. Chewed. Swallowed.

(Danger. Warning.)

The muscles around his eyes were tense. He ran his tongue across his teeth then forced a smile.

"You amuse me. If you were prettier, I might have kept you like a pet. My brother has a pet. His is stupid, although a scientist. You are intelligent, although a waitress. But you're not quite… perfect enough."

"Excuse me?" she demanded. (Crazy. He's talking like a mad person.)

Emma barely understood what happened next. One moment, she was staring at the pointed face of the man who called himself Loki. Next, she was laying on the tiles, staring at the ceiling, her chest aching.

He peered over the counter at her and smiled again. A cruel smile.

(What did I do wrong?)

"And that burger? Not even close to out of this world. And I should know better than anyone."

(Help)

His shoes tapped against the tile floors. The door opened. The door closed.

(He didn't even look back.)

* * *

Author's Note: So, I had an idea for this character, Emma. And I liked her. I also like Loki and I'd recently seen the Avengers for the first time. So I slammed them together. Originally, the plan was for some sappy romance thing between them, but I'm not (currently) in the mood for writing a whole bunch on something not my main project. I guess you can chalk this up to being a fun exercise in character development over a brief span of time.


End file.
